


Hornblower 'Ships: Beyond the Indy

by athenasdragon



Category: Hornblower (TV)
Genre: Age of Sail, Archie is really screwed up, Bush is sad and alone, Ficlet Collection, Friendship, Gen, Imprisonment, Multi, Pellew is Horatio's dad, Psychological Trauma, Suicidal Thoughts, The Dadmiral
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-28
Updated: 2015-08-28
Packaged: 2018-04-17 15:45:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,915
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4672247
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/athenasdragon/pseuds/athenasdragon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of oneshots centered around different characters from the Horatio Hornblower miniseries. Strong focus on relationships, romantic and otherwise, and not always Horatio-centric.</p>
<p>So far: Pellew, Bush, Kennedy.<br/>Upcoming: Wellard, Stiles, ?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Pellew

**Author's Note:**

> Feel free to request characters. I always need an excuse to rewatch these. :)

Captain Pellew watched Hornblower's back as the boy slowly exited his cabin. Even the door's shrill squeak seemed melancholy in light of recent events. The mission had been a damned disaster, it couldn't be denied, though Hornblower had salvaged it as well as he could.

Pellew threw his correspondence down on his desk, disgusted. The idea that the Admiralty could have condoned such a suicide run was preposterous and, frankly, insulting to the officers involved. What had been gained? No land, no tactical advantage, not even any morale in this blasted war.

He had to admit that the personal damage done to his young Lieutenant angered him just as much as the other injustices. Since Hornblower had joined his crew, the boy had done nothing but prove himself worthy. He had not asked specifically what had happened in Muzillac, but he decided to discreetly obtain the information from a member of the crew.

Pellew stood, hands behind back, to gaze out at the frothing trail behind the  _Indefatigable_  and fume. Only this righteous anger was enough to drown the pity he felt for the boy, and he refused to let personal feelings of sentiment cloud any interactions with his crew.

But watching Hornblower stand in his cabin, back ramrod-straight but tears streaming down his face, was hard on the aging Captain, who had become to think of the boy as the son he never had.

His spiral of anger and introspection was interrupted by a heavy knock at the door.

"Enter!" he snapped, hoping that it was some dire matter which would absorb his attention for the rest of the day.

Major Lord Edrington stuck his head through the frame, his manner belying a caution unusual for the cocky young man. Inwardly, Pellew sighed; surely he could not have found something to complain about so soon after his return to the ship?

"Captain Pellew," he greeted, apparently making up his mind and entering, shutting the door softly behind him. "I have come to make my report on the expedition."

"Very well." Pellew returned to his place behind his desk, steepled his fingers, and waited.

The Major carefully outlined the specifics of the mission, including exact numbers of men and amounts of ammunitions used. When he had finished, he dipped his head in a shallow bow and made to leave.

However, just as his fingers met the rough wood of the door, he appeared to hesitate.

Mildly irritated by the indecision, Pellew decided to prompt him. "Is there anything else which you wish to discuss, Major?"

Edrington turned to face him once more, and Pellew noticed the state of his uniform for the first time since he had entered. The hems were scorched and torn and the crimson and white had been faded almost to a continuous brown by the dust. "Yes, Sir. It is regarding Lieutenant Hornblower, Sir."

Pellew sighed, wishing that he didn't have to hear this unknown news from a marine. "What is it?"

"It is... well, Sir, I am sure you know that Lieutenant Hornblower performed admirably under the situation presented." Pellew raised an eyebrow; whatever he had been expecting, that had not been it.

"I expect all of my officers to perform admirably under any situation." This time it was his turn to hesitate before continuing. "But yes, I acknowledge that Lieutenant Hornblower has a particular talent. Is there anything else?"

"I thought you ought to know, Sir, that he formed a... personal attachment to one of the townspeople. They became close in the few days of their acquaintance and sh- they died in the retreat this morning."

Pellew was sharp enough to catch the beginning of "she," and guessed by the Major's hasty change exactly what the nature of this "personal attachment" had been. "I think that I understand you perfectly, Major." At least Edrington had the good grace to look embarrassed by his slip. "Thank you for bringing this matter to my attention. I will... monitor Mr. Hornblower and make sure that he handles this appropriately."

This time Edrington really did leave, and Pellew breathed a sigh of relief. The interview had been considerably less trying than he ever could have hoped, and he now knew the reason for Hornblower's distress.

After pacing for a few minutes, Pellew rolled his eyes at himself and stalked out of his cabin, following well-known hallways and ladders to the Lieutenants' quarters. He would rather not draw attention to the issue by summoning Hornblower back to his cabin, but he still felt the urge to check on the boy. Besides, he might already be asleep after the taxing mission.

He rapped on the door and called "Mr. Hornblower!" as softly as he thought could still be heard through the oak. To his surprise, it was Lieutenant Kennedy who opened the door, an inquiring look on his face. When he recognized the captain, he hurried to salute and open the door wider.

"Sir!" Pellew made to enter, but Kennedy jumped to block his way at the last second. The captain raised an interrogative eyebrow, and the young man flushed. "I'm sorry, Captain Pellew, only..." Kennedy lowered his voice. "Mr. Hornblower is in some distress."

Sure enough, Pellew could see that the hammock closest to the door was shaking gently and emitting muffled whimpering noises. Hornblower was clearly distraught and trying to hide it. Rolling his eyes once again at his own silly affection for the boy, but moved by his situation, the captain made up his mind.

Entering the room with light tread, he saw that Hornblower hadn't even shed his uniform before curling into the shivering mass of despair which now sat before him. The sight tore at Pellew's heart; the boy was barely twenty. No one so young should have to endure such heartbreak.

"Mr. Hornblower." The figure stiffened and silenced at the familiar voice. "Major Edrington has informed me of some of the details of the expedition which you eliminated from your report." Pellew paused, loathe to say too much in front of Kennedy, but the sorrowful look in the young man's eyes showed that he knew. "I would like to offer my condolences."

When Hornblower still didn't respond, Pellew suddenly turned and left, his own eyes filling. The story was all too familiar to the captain, who had seen many fine men fall prey to the charms of a young woman and lose their hearts to her memory. He himself had experienced something similar, though that painful story was many years behind him.

Striding back to his own cabin, Pellew had to admit that he would never have made the same move for any of his other crew. That had been the act of a personal friend, of a father. As promising as Hornblower was and as much as he cared for the boy, he would have to transfer him. Even the thought of removing such a dedicated officer from his crew was distressing in the highest, but the boy would have more chance for promotion elsewhere, where there could be no question of favoritism.

Suddenly weary, Pellew returned to the deck, anxious to be away from that cursed place.


	2. Bush

Lieutenant Bush never remembered feeling so cold in his life.

His greatcoat rested heavy on his strong shoulders and his hands were tucked securely beneath it, but the frost still bit painfully at his fingers. He passed an ice-rippled shop window and glanced into it, not in the least surprised to see that the tip of his nose was quite blue.

Despite the chill of the Portsmouth winter, he was elated to be back walking her cobbled streets. For what no one knew, not his family or even his closest friends from the Navy, was that collecting his pension was only one reason that he came here.  _She_ was the other.

He had met Patience in the tavern her family owned on shore leave nearly five years before. Despite his gruff exterior, he had been ensnared by her sweet personality, her delicate laugh, her silky brown hair and large brown eyes. Luckily for him, she had noticed him too.

Her name was apt, for he could only see her when he had leave to come ashore. Then she would sneak away to him and they would kiss and exchange stories, revel in each other’s company, and part ways in less than a week. He knew that his fellow officers would tease him mercilessly if ever they found out, so he kept the relationship to himself.

Now he felt an anticipatory smile tug at his lips and his pace sped as he drew near to the familiar tavern. He had been away for several months, only returning to collect his pension as he did odd work all over the country and saved. Finally he had enough money to support her- at least for the present tenuous peacetime- and he intended to ask her to marry him.

The cold was nothing to him. He held her love in his chest; not a burning passion such as flamed in every sailor for the closest woman he saw after a journey, but a slow, sure warmth that she knew him and loved him and he could be with her until war once again reared its ugly head. Bush knew no other way to love, but he did so with all of his heart.

The windows were dark as he approached, but he was not concerned. He only stopped long enough to scrape a packing of snow from the sign beside the door- “The King’s Arms”- before knocking and letting himself inside. Patience’s family often kept odd hours, especially now that there wasn’t a steady stream of Navy officers through the town, but they knew him.

The inside was cold and dusty. There was no fire lit in the grate, not even any ashes to prove that there ever had been. A stack of long-unused glasses spilled across the counter and there were no candles in the wax-speckled holders.

"You there!” Bush whipped around to see a tall, gangling man, leaning drunkenly against the counter and carelessly pointing a pistol towards him.

He carefully raised his hands, showing that he had no weapon. “My apologies, good sir, for letting myself in. I am only looking for the family who owns this tavern.”

“‘T i’nt a family what owns it,” the man slurred, “they left town. New st- start.”

Bush raised his eyebrows, puzzled. “And their daughter?”

Recognition suddenly dawned on the man. “You’s the one as the old lady says to watch for, you is. She told me to tell you...” The man screwed up his face as he thought, then brightened. “Her patience has run out! No, that’s not it...”

The terrifying beginnings of understanding washed over Bush.

“No, hang on, she left a note...”

Less than a minute later, Bush was back outside in the cold, the scrap of paper clutched in his hand. Shoulders jostled him and the wind threatened to tear it from his fingers, but he noticed neither as he read the dooming words.

_Lt. Bush:_

_I am afraid to be the one to tell you that our Patience has died of consumption._

_She took ill recently after your last visit, and the illness advanced so quickly. The doctor could do nothing for her._

_Forgive me for neglecting the details, as the topic still pains me greatly. My husband and I thank you for your kindness to our family and your attention to Patience, and we wish you goodbye and good luck._

_We are moving back to London where we have family._

There were a few more lines to the letter, but his eyes skimmed them without seeing or understanding.

Too numb for any kind of thought, he stuffed the shred of paper into a pocket and trudged away. Patience was dead. He was going to marry her and now she was dead.

He picked up the pace to a brisk walk, nearly jogging, and kept his head ducked as he barreled through the streets. This was not how it was supposed to happen.

He was so preoccupied that he didn’t even notice the approach of another young Lieutenant with curly brown hair…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As I scan this I realize that, once again, my style has changed in the months since I've written this. Bear with me until I have the time to come back and overhaul it. In the meantime, feedback is very much appreciated!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the one with poor Archie's tortured mind and suicidal thoughts, folks. Please read responsibly.

Drip. Drip. Drip. The endless running of the rain down the stone wall. A sourceless scuffling in the sand. Was it a rat? Was he having another fit? He was so tired. He didn’t know.

Archie Kennedy rolled his flushed, feverish face into the mildewed clump that passed for a pillow in his meager cell. He thought that he was probably having a fit. He watched disinterestedly as his own hand fluttered past his face. A distant crash- his teeth? A red stain dotted with foamy spittle spread over the tattered white cloth. Warm metal.

He imagined that it was the muzzle of a pistol, felt the gun scrape his teeth and press against the roof of his mouth. A single spasm in a single finger and this despair, this constant panic would be over.

A pair of steely grey eyes. “Coward.”

His body went limp. The pain of his tongue flashed like ignited powder. Something between a sob and a yell tore from his throat.

“You don’t know!” he screamed at the disapproving face, the dutifully-clasped hands. “You’ve never understood. You’ve never felt shame, felt torture like this. All you’ve ever had was duty.”

Tears flew from his eyes as his body shook in terror and loss. And cold. This infernal, wet, penetrating, paralyzing cold. The musty and torn blanket held no comfort.

Then he stilled, startled by the rage echoing around him. He had released a scream more solid than his own emaciated form, a scream of pure hatred for himself and his situation and his damnable illness.

New eyes, sly and omniscient, and the terrible hands closing in on him, forcing him to do things, stains which could never be scrubbed from his conscience, stains which he knew Horatio saw, for he had been stronger, had stood up to the oppression, and he had only bowed to the whispered threats and insistent blows.

Hands. Stains. “Out, damned spots!”

Insane laughter echoed around the cell. Not his. Lady Macbeth’s.

He chuckled to himself. “I am a Lady.”

A slap across his face. Distant figures, voices. He was so cold. Why was he sweating?

“Archie! You’re delirious.”

“No, Horatio. I’m Lady Macbeth. But I don’t want to be.” He pouted, laughed, sipped at his ration of diluted rum. “I want to be Mark Antony. I want to be brave and loyal. Help me be Antony.”

The steely eyes, no longer blade sharp. Soft. Like the fog around the _Indy_ , keeping them in their own little world. And kind. His friend.

“Of course, Archie. Anything for a friend.”

Then silence. Archie rolled his head, feeling the dried blood crack and buckle down his chin. Damp sunlight filtered through the bars of his cell. Three bowls of congealed porridge sat on the floor. He had messed himself during the feverish hallucinations, and the stench of it and the horrid food and the blood made him nauseated. He gagged, but there was nothing in his stomach. The taut skin only stretched against his ribs.

“Damn,” he murmured, the word feeling like a small rebellion as it struggled to the end of his throbbing tongue. Then louder. “Damn!”

Only the anger now. Anger for his weakness and filth. He stood, kicking the bowls on the floor. They rolled and clattered against the bars of the door. He swatted at the air, sliced the neck of an imaginary enemy and kicked him in the stomach. The invisible foe fell onto the bricks of cemented mush.

Then a wave of faintness overcame him and he fell back down to sit on his hard pallet. The tears streamed down his cheeks and he was ashamed.

“Horatio,” he muttered, thumping his head against the wall. “Horatio. Help me. Please.” A weak sob and he swung his head harder in punishment. Each crack brought fresh pain and made his vision flicker, but the sharpness, the reality of it, was refreshing. “Please take me away. I’ll do anything. Just get me back on the _Indy._ ”

For one brief moment, he was there. The fresh sea air streamed by and he could taste the excitement. One hand on his sword, the other on the rail. Horatio beside him, a Lieutenant now. He wasn’t even jealous. They both laughed at something Styles had muttered to Matthews. The sun beat down on the creaking timbers and a gull winged gracefully to land on top of the mainmast.

Then the stale air of his cell, still and moldy and rank with his own stench.

He slammed his head once more against the stone and brilliant black flashed behind his eyes and cannon in his ears before he fell into blissful oblivion.

After hours or days or mere seconds, he was kneeling beside Horatio, a pale corpse riddled with dozens of gunshots. Staring eyes, gaping mouth, but fierce even in death.

“Thou art the ruins of the noblest man who ever lived in the tide of times.” The knees of his uniform were shining and black with his friend’s blood.

The corpse’s slack jaw flapped loosely. “Antony it is. Your choice.”

Archie’s eyes flew open. Someone was shaking his shoulders. “Archie? Archie!” Horatio’s jaw was clenched and worry poured from his eyes.

Archie turned away without speaking, weary of the nightmares.


End file.
